The Guests on South Battery

by Karen White

  “Come in,” I said, drawing her into the room. I had to pry her hand from the doorknob so I could close the door. I followed her gaze behind me to where it settled on the black cat crouched low at the bottom of the stairs.

  “How did he get in here?” she asked as the cat ran soundlessly up the stairs and out of sight.

  “Who, me?” Thomas asked as he approached.

  “No. A fat black cat,” I explained. “We keep seeing him, but he’s very fast. I don’t know who he belongs to, but someone must be feeding him, because he’s definitely not starving.”

  Thomas didn’t seem to be listening. Instead he was staring at Jayne, a small crease between his eyebrows. Before he could say anything, Jayne said, “I have one of those faces, so you think we’ve met before. But I know we haven’t.” She held out her hand to him. “I’m Jayne Smith. Apparently, the new owner of this house.”

  Thomas smiled, revealing perfect teeth and exaggerating the smile lines on the side of his face, transforming him from simply handsome to devastating. “I’m Detective Thomas Riley. I understand from Melanie here that you think you had an intruder?”

  Even though he continued to smile, I could tell that he was still studying Jayne with his detective eyes, wondering if she really just had one of those faces.

  “Well, we’re not sure. But Melanie’s cell phone has had several phone calls from a landline number assigned to this house. It’s actually been in service for nearly forty years and has not been reassigned according to the phone company.” She bit her lower lip and glanced at me as if for affirmation. “There’s just one thing. . . .” There was a long pause, and I wondered if she wanted me to speak. Instead I gave her an encouraging look. This was her house, after all. “When Miss Pinckney died, the telephone service was cut off.”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows, and I knew he wanted to look at me to get my take on the matter, but dared not. “Maybe the records show that there’s no service, but there might have been a paperwork glitch. Have you lifted any of the receivers to check?”

  Jayne’s eyes widened hopefully. “No—we haven’t had a chance. I know I saw an old turquoise phone on the wall in the kitchen.” She began walking excitedly to the kitchen, as if the thought of having an intruder in the house making phone calls to my cell was much more palatable—and conceivable—than any other explanation.

  We followed her into the kitchen and watched as she picked the handset from the wall and held it to her ear. Her eyes closed briefly before she shook her head, then slowly hung up the phone. “It’s dead,” she said.

  That’s not the only thing, I thought, but kept my mouth closed. She’d made her decision about keeping the house—for now—and I didn’t want to muddy the waters. Whatever was here could be dealt with or just ignored, depending on how persistent it became. I hoped without Jayne being any the wiser.

  Thomas leaned against a kitchen counter, then immediately straightened and brushed at his sleeves as he noticed the dust coating the kitchen table and chairs. “I’ll double-check to see if the number’s been reassigned and who it’s been reassigned to. If it hasn’t, well, things get a little more complicated.” He didn’t look at me, but I could tell he wanted to. Instead he tilted his head slightly to regard Jayne. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”

  “Positive,” Jayne said with a smile. “Because I’m pretty sure I would have remembered meeting you.” Her cheeks pinkened as she seemed to notice for the first time that he was an attractive male and not just a police detective. “I mean, well, you’re a detective. And tall. With clean fingernails. And I like your shirt.”

  I rolled my eyes behind her back and tugged on her elbow to get her to stop. She was worse than I’d been when I met Jack. I’d also sounded like a teenager who’d never been on a date before. Which was actually pretty accurate at the time. I supposed that was something else Jayne and I had in common—lonely childhoods that didn’t leave a lot of room for a social life or relationships of any kind.

  “Thank you,” Thomas said with a smile in his voice. “My oldest sister bought me this shirt for my birthday. I’ll let her know that I received a compliment on it today.”

  Jayne was saved from spouting more infantile gibberish by the distinct sound of a ringing bell. She looked at me in surprise. “I thought the servants’ bells didn’t work.”

  “I thought so, too,” I said, avoiding her gaze. “I guess we were wrong.” We turned back to the kitchen.

  “They’re over here,” Jayne said as she walked into the butler’s pantry, its glass-covered cabinets full of crystal and china and what looked like a salt-and-pepper-shaker collection. I peered closely at what appeared to be a peanut-shaped ceramic saltshaker with the word “Georgia” painted on its side. I had a sinking feeling that there was a set from all fifty states. I’d have to get Amelia in here to see what was in these cabinets and the rest of the house and let Jayne know whether any of it was valuable. I hoped for Jayne’s sake that the china was rare and expensive so she’d have an excuse to sell it and not keep it out of obligation to Button Pinckney. The china was covered in pink roses, with gold-covered scalloped edges. Definitely old, and definitely European. And definitely hideous. I assumed all the Pinckneys had been very slim, since eating off those plates must have diminished appetites.

  Jayne pointed to a metal box with a single bell. “That must have been what made the noise.”

  “I don’t think so,” Thomas said, using his height to full advantage and getting a closer look. “There’s no hammer anymore—or it rusted away. But this dog won’t hunt, that’s for sure.”

  I found it odd that nobody asked the obvious question: Then how did the bell ring?

  After an awkward pause, Jayne said, “It must have been the doorbell,” and began marching toward the front door, Thomas and me dutifully following. She opened it and swung the door wide, then stepped out onto the front landing as if to make sure nobody was hiding. Turning around, she pressed her finger into the old doorbell button, her effort rewarded by silence.

  “Actually, Jayne,” I said, “most doorbells in these old houses rarely operate because of the high humidity and salt in the air.”

  She walked into the foyer and slowly closed the door. Crossing her arms over her chest, she said, “It must have been a bike from outside, then. So many people on bikes in Charleston, I noticed. I’ll have to get one.”

  A flash of white from the landing flitted across my peripheral vision, but I dared not turn my head. I became aware of my second sight being blocked again, like a hand being held over my eyes, allowing me to see only what it thought I should.

  A loud thump and then the sound of scurrying little feet tumbled downstairs. “Help me!” It was the doll’s voice, high-pitched and strident, the words seeming to echo in the otherwise silent house. Jayne and I turned around in time to see the black cat race across the landing and disappear up the stairs.

  Thomas immediately held out his hand to prevent us from moving forward. “Is there anybody here?” he called up the stairs. Stepping forward, he pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and began climbing. “I’m Detective Thomas Riley from the Charleston Police Department and I’m armed. Please show yourself.”

  He motioned for us to stay back as he silently climbed the stairs two at a time. We listened as each door was thrown open, then waited as Thomas moved from room to room upstairs searching for an intruder. After several long minutes, he reappeared on the landing, his eyebrows knitted together. “It’s all clear. But, well, this is the dangedest thing I’ve seen in a while.”

  Jayne and I nearly collided as we raced toward the stairs, then halted as we reached the upper hallway. The Thomas Edison doll, so fragile and valuable, stood by a half-open door at the end of the hallway, one of its arms reaching upward as if trying to grasp the doorknob. Or as if it had already opened the door.

  “Those are the stairs to the attic,” Th
omas provided.

  “Do you think somebody’s trying to play a prank on me?” Jayne asked with a quavering voice.

  Thomas returned his gun to the holster and approached Jayne. “I suppose we need to consider the possibility. It certainly doesn’t appear to be a burglary—nothing’s been ransacked, anyway. You might want to check with Miss Pinckney’s lawyers to see if they have an inventory of the house you can check against what’s here.” His eyes met mine for a moment over Jayne’s head. “Just in case, I would suggest changing the locks and installing a security system—there doesn’t seem to already be one. It’s an up-front expense, but from what Melanie has told me, there are a lot of valuable items inside the house.”

  “Including that doll,” I said, indicating Chucky posed at the door.

  Thomas gave an involuntary shudder. “Really? I’m glad you told me. Otherwise I would have offered to take it with me and toss it in a Dumpster on the way home.”

  “It talks,” I said. “Although it’s not supposed to, but Sophie told us that it has to be wound up first and that the mechanism is too delicate for it to work now. And it only recites a single nursery rhyme.”

  Our eyes met, recalling the two words we’d all heard. Help me. That wasn’t part of any nursery rhyme I knew. I swallowed. “I’m thinking Sophie got it wrong, but she’s arranging for an expert to take a look at it so we at least have an idea of its value.”

  Jayne’s arms remained crossed tightly in front of her, with little half-moons dug into her skin where her fingernails were. “I’m wondering if there might be a secret entrance to the house or something. That might be where the stray cat gets in and out.”

  Leaving the doll where it was—nobody volunteered to put it back in the rocking chair in Button Pinckney’s bedroom—Thomas led us toward the stairs. “I’ll walk around the house and give a thorough search for what might look like any hidden openings. Melanie—why don’t you call your friend Yvonne at the archives and see if she has any of the old blueprints from this house? You never know what you might find.”

  You never know what you might find. “I’ll do that. Jack and I haven’t seen Yvonne in a while, so that will be nice.”

  I noticed a large two-bell brass carriage clock—the metal splotched in places, giving the surface the appearance of reflected clouds—sitting on a narrow hall table at the top of the stairs. As we passed it, it began to chime. Out of habit I looked at my watch but was surprised to see that it was eleven twenty—not a time that would warrant a chime on any clock. I stopped to look at the face of the clock and stilled. Although it was still chiming, the hands of the clock weren’t moving, frozen on a time that was becoming frighteningly familiar. Ten minutes past four.

  “Oomph.”

  My head whipped around in time to see Jayne pitch forward on the stairs. She seemed to roll forward in slow motion, her body hitting the wall of the landing, before momentum flipped her head over heels down the rest of the stairs.

  Thomas had already reached the foyer and was quick enough to break Jayne’s fall before she could hit the hard floor. I raced down after her, careful to hold on to the bannister, then crouched next to where Thomas had sat her on the bottom step. “Are you all right?”

  She was rubbing her ankle. “I think so. But my ankle’s hurt.”

  Thomas carefully removed her shoe and began gently pressing on her ankle. “Doesn’t seem to be broken, but I’m taking you to the hospital to be completely checked out. You hit your head pretty hard on the landing wall.”

  “Really, that’s not necessary—”

  “Yes, it is. Both professionally and personally. If my mother found out that I witnessed a pretty woman fall down the stairs and didn’t take her to the hospital, she’d hit me with a frying pan.”

  Jayne’s cheeks flushed as she lifted her lips in a half smile, then looked back up the stairway. “That was the weirdest thing. . . .”

  “What?” I asked uneasily. “How you tripped?” I felt like a liar, knowing full well she hadn’t tripped.

  Jayne shook her head. “No. I should be more seriously hurt than just a twisted ankle. But it was as if I had a little cushion each time I hit a step or the wall.”

  “That is weird,” I said, shrugging as if that sort of thing happened every day. Which it did in my world, but I didn’t want to tell her that. But I’d felt it, too, the softer presence that wasn’t afraid of whatever other spirits still lingered between the old walls. There were battling forces in this house, and something was keeping me from seeing the whole picture. But there was one thing I was sure of: I couldn’t let Jayne Smith back in the house until I knew what—or who—did not want any guests.

  Thomas leaned down and picked Jayne up, her arm sliding around his shoulders, her cheeks a dark scarlet. “Can you grab her purse and shoe? You can toss them into the back of my car.”

  “I’ll go with you . . .” I said as I ran after him.

  “I’m off duty and you’ve got a husband and two babies to get home to. We’ll be fine—I’ll call you and let you know what’s going on.”

  “Your shampoo smells nice,” Jayne said to the side of Thomas’s head. “Or is that your deodorant? I’m glad you wear deodorant.”

  I rolled my eyes as I threw her stuff into the back of Thomas’s sedan, then watched as Thomas carefully buckled Jayne’s seat belt. She sent me a thumbs-up and I reciprocated, still holding up my thumb as I watched his car pull away.

  I realized I hadn’t locked up the house and was almost to the front door when it slammed in my face, the rusted key scraping against the decrepit lock from the inside of the house, and leaving me with the distinct impression that I wasn’t welcome.

  CHAPTER 10

  Ichecked the mailbox on the front gate as I came home for lunch the following day. I always made a point of dumping anything we didn’t need into the outside recycling bin before it even made it into the house. Jack was forbidden from getting the mail because it always ended up in a pile on the kitchen counter that would stay there until the next millennium if I didn’t take charge. He’d thanked me for taking over this chore with a grin that had showed all his teeth. It was nice to be appreciated.

  I stood at the back door, going through the mail piece by piece, dropping all except a bill from Rich Kobylt’s business, Hard Rock Foundations—for the restoration of the kitchen window as well as two dining room window frames that had rotted through—and a heavy linen envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jack Trenholm. It was thick, like a wedding invitation, and before I turned it over to see the return address, I ran through my head anybody I knew who’d be getting married. With the exception of octogenarian librarian Yvonne Craig, I didn’t think I knew anybody still single.

  The return address was engraved onto the back of the ivory-colored envelope. There was no name, but the address was in New York City. I opened the back door and smelled something wonderful cooking on the stove, Mrs. Houlihan gently stirring a pot’s contents with a wooden spoon. The three dogs were in their individual monogrammed beds. Nola swore they could read and that was why they always ended up in the right bed. I had my doubts—nothing that cute could also be that smart. It worked against the laws of nature.

  I gave them each a scratch behind the ears, then turned to Mrs. Houlihan expectantly. “That smells divine. What is it?” I reached to lift the lid from the pot, but the older woman slapped gently at my hand.

  “It’s a vegan meat sauce for the whole wheat spaghetti you’re having for dinner tonight. It’s from the cookbook Dr. Wallen-Arasi gave you for Christmas.”

  “I thought I told you to donate that to Goodwill.”

  “Did you? I must have forgot. I must say, I’ve been making some of the recipes at home and my clothes are fitting much more loosely.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her, wondering if she was trying to say something else, but she busied herself with sorting spices on the rack o
n the counter.

  My interest and appetite having fled, I carefully hung up my coat in the small closet we’d had added to the butler’s pantry, checking each pocket carefully and making sure the lapels of all the coats were facing the same way. Nola had learned quickly, but there were two of Jack’s coats that I had to fix.

  I slid open the kitchen drawer where I kept the letter opener. That was another thing I’d told Jack I’d take care of—the opening of mail. I’d shown him several times the correct use of a letter opener, even shown him where ours was kept, but it was as if he refused my instruction, and if an unopened envelope accidentally fell into his possession, he’d open it like a hungry bear at an overstuffed garbage can.

  I carefully slid the letter opener into the corner of the envelope, then gently moved the blade to the other corner, leaving a clean, precise opening the way Mother Nature intended. I pulled out an engraved invitation on heavy cardstock without an envelope or RSVP card—the way etiquette sticklers did it.

  I stared at the elegant script, and I suddenly felt light-headed. It wasn’t a wedding invitation at all. It was an invitation to a book launch party. I read over it a couple of times just to make sure I wasn’t misinterpreting it, then shoved it back into the envelope and when I stacked the mail, I put it under the bill in the hope that Jack would overlook it and I could pretend I’d never seen it. It did occur to me that I could shred it in the paper shredder in Jack’s office and no one would be any the wiser. It was what the old me would have done. But I was a mature married woman now, and it would be up to Jack to notice the invitation and respond.

  A heavy thump and then the sound of something being dragged upstairs brought me out of the kitchen. I stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened, thinking it was from Nola’s room, which at the moment was practically vibrating with loud music that sadly wasn’t the ABBA album I’d given her for Christmas.